


Good Evening, Good Afternoon

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Kissing, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some canon era Combeferre/Grantaire. Grantaire spends his night with Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Evening, Good Afternoon

There is a candle burning on the other man’s windowsill, and it is above him on the second story, the flame flickering in the air. It is a pleasant sight, and warm, welcoming glow, but despite its being there, Grantaire does not feel welcome.

But then, Grantaire does not feel welcome anywhere he goes, and so he will go walk up the stairs anyway. They creak, singing of his presence, and he is uncomfortable with how  _loud_  it is. Grantaire is a loud man; it would be wrong to claim he is not, but he is loud in drink and song and laughter and the occasional rant, not like this.

He is not breaking silence with the creak of wood and nail; such things are not natural to him. In silences like these, he would stay there delightedly, that he might enjoy the distracting silence. When others talk, after all, one’s inner voice responds; one thinks.

What Grantaire wouldn’t give to cease his ceaseless thoughts for a time.

“Aimé.” Combeferre says when he pushes open the door, and the candle at the sill flickers, and Combeferre’s face is  _warm_ , ensconced in that welcoming glow, and Grantaire feels safe. He has always felt safe with Combeferre, for reasons he cannot explain; Courfeyrac is the warmest of all of  _les amis_ , and yet with him Grantaire clashes now and then.

It is perhaps the mix of a true optimist and a true pessimist, he tells himself, and has nothing to do with his provocation of Enjolras, or his shun of the revolution.

“Combeferre.” Grantaire returns, as if the other had not just used his own first name, as if he was not creating an inequality by himself. Combeferre looks at him with his warm, candle-lit face, his glasses shining with the flickering light, and he is stern. Combeferre is the schoolmaster if Enjolras is the rebel, and something about appeals to Grantaire where no schoolmaster had appealed to him before.

Combeferre, Grantaire thinks, is how teachers should be. Gentle, kind, ready to educate at all times, speaking with passion but accepting the views of others; with fury in protection of his students and his friends.

Alas, he had never had a teacher like Combeferre.

“Émile.” He amends himself, taking on the other’s first name, and the sternness fades; Combeferre smiles at him, and Grantaire feels acceptance. Part of him questions why he had not done this intially; the rest of him understands that he still does not feel it is his place to.

“Have you been painting?”

“Never.”

“Drinking?”

“Never.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop asking.”

“Aimé.”

“Émile.” It is not a battle, nor a fight. Such a thing could never be applied to men like Combeferre, and never again to men like Grantaire. Grantaire is a true pacifist for all he bites and screams and spits at the world; Combeferre avoids violence until it is no longer possible. Grantaire remembers the last fight he’d had with Bahorel; to box is not to battle, and such things are more a dance than a fight. He remembers Bahorel’s red cheeks and scowl and misunderstanding; he remembers his own  _indignation_  at being called a fighter.

He could not explain his reasons for that now, but they were there at the time.

Grantaire smiles, his smile crooked, his lips chapped; he knows that he is ugly. He wonders if Combeferre knows that he is handsome – he doubts it. Enjolras knows of his beauty, makes use of it for all his innocence, sways men and women to his side with his wonderful face and his words; Courfeyrac is handsome and well-dressed, and knows very well how to seduce. Combeferre is handsome, but blunt and academic.

Grantaire does not think he has ever seen Combeferre so much as glance at a woman passing by, as much as Enjolras never has.

Combeferre tuts, disapproving, and yet when he looks down at his books Grantaire sees the barest hint of shade at the other man’s lips; a smile. A closed-lips, tiny smile. Grantaire feels warm from his stomach to his heart, heat blossoming in his chest in silent pleasantry.

“Have you been painting?” He asks.

“Some.” Grantaire answers, and he moves to kneel on the floor across from the other man, piled books between them. “A few hours here and there; it is difficult. One is of flowers, another of a host of angels.”

“These angels have our faces?”

“Émile.” Grantaire complains, and Combeferre laughs; it is a wonderful sound, low and not throaty, warm to the ear. Everything about Combeferre is warm and inviting: safe. He is safe.

“And the drinking?”

“Some.” Combeferre looks up, regarding him over the rims of his glasses. “Much.” He does not how he feels about these meetings they have, when Combeferre puts out a candle because Enjolras is gone or sleeping or otherwise absent, and Grantaire comes to speak with him. He is safe with Combeferre; with Enjolras he is too close to that which gives him life.

Grantaire’s eyes move down in order that he not meet the other’s eyes. Instead, he studies Combeferre’s hands, regarding their marks from inks and little cuts from pins; he plays no instruments as Courfeyrac and Enjolras do, and yet his hands are strong.

He is to be a doctor, after all.

“No opiates?”

“None.”

“Good.” Combeferre murmurs to himself, and he stands, beginning to set his books aside, neatly, carefully stacked. Everything in Combeferre and Enjolras’ home is carefully done, perfect, set in just the right place. Where the Musain is chaos, their home is ordered.

Grantaire understands the difference between Enjolras’ leadership and Combeferre’s.

He watches in silence as Combeferre takes the candle from the sill, and he follows Combeferre as the taller man lights another candle at the bedside.

Combeferre sets the second candle aside and begins to untie his cravat, and in his throat Grantaire feels a thick, anxious lump; the other man looks at him. Combeferre’s mirror, Grantaire begins to undo his own. He works carefully as he removes each article, moving exactly at Combeferre’s pace; with any other person on this earth, Grantaire would never worry so about being perceived as reluctant or too eager, yet with Combeferre, this matched pace is vital.

He slides with deep care into bed alongside the other man, and he hesitates; Grantaire always hesitates, because he has no right to be here, in bed with Combeferre, when Enjolras’ own bed is a few feet across the room. Grantaire wants to ask when Enjolras will be home, but perception is everything; he can’t stand the thought of Combeferre thinking of himself as unwanted, or worse, thinking of Grantaire as callous.

Grantaire wants nothing more than to be here.

He fears interruption rather than a break to this secrecy; he could never say this, never explain. And so Grantaire does not ask when Enjolras will be home.

He shifts, the movement almost entirely neglible, but Combeferre notices as he notices the twitch in Enjolras’ jaw when he’s lost his form as a debate, or when Courfeyrac’s hands shift when he is thinking of hitting a man, or when Bossuet is beginning to struggle with Grantaire’s ridicule, when Joly is overstressed, when Feuilly is too tired and still telling Enjolras he is fine, or when Prouvaire is out of his depth and Bahorel hasn’t the good temper to let him climb up again.

Grantaire never considers that he notices these things too. He considers only that Combeferre is as passionate of his friends as Courfeyrac, and that few people notice.

“Aimé.” Combeferre murmurs, very quietly, and Grantaire shifts closer, pressing his body to the other man’s, feeling the absurd broadness of his shoulders and keeping in mind that his feet touch against the front of Combeferre’s calves, because he himself is not terribly tall, and Combeferre is. “You’re pale as a sheet.”

“Hush with your schoolmaster’s concerns; I am well.”

“You do not look well.” Combeferre murmurs, and Grantaire does his best not to shiver when the words are murmured against his scalp. He leans, dragging his mouth over the other man’s collarbone, enjoying the taste of salt beneath his lips; he feels triumph when Combeferre lets out a quiet groan of sound.

“Do I feel well?”

“You are  _impudent._ ” Combeferre says, tone long-suffering and slightly teasing, and Grantaire chuckles against Combeferre’s chest, amused.

“Might you take the cane to my backside, then, and teach me not to be?”

“I needn’t teach you.”

“You might cane me anyway.”

“I would never.” Grantaire sighs in a dramatic fashion.

“Then woe is me.”

“If I would beat you, I’d use my hand on your backside. I ought be personal.” Grantaire laughs, and Combeferre is laughing too; Grantaire is right here, right and safe and just.

“God forbid you are not personal with me.” Combeferre’s hand is on Grantaire’s hip now, but it does not stay; it slides, stroking over the other’s naked back beneath the sheets they have pulled over themselves, as if to hide the fact that their bodies are nudely entwined, as if no one could notice their clothes, Combeferre’s neatly folded and Grantaire’s scattered on a chair.

“God forbid.” Combeferre agrees. They do not talk of politics here, but suddenly Grantaire wants to ask of the revolution Combeferre has no passion for; of the revolution Combeferre wants to have himself, rebuilding their schools, their hospitals, their factories and stores.

But Grantaire is distracted.

Combeferre leans, catches Grantaire’s lips beneath his own and they are kissing lit by candelight, eyes closed, mouths together, Grantaire’s stubble against the other’s cheeks. Grantaire is ugly and Combeferre is handsome but doesn’t know; does it matter when they are in bed together and no one can see them?

The door opens and Grantaire freezes, looking with a sort of barely concealed horror toward the door, but Combeferre says nothing. Enjolras regards them both with red-rimmed, too-tired eyes, and Grantaire knows that he has been with Feuilly, and that they talked for longer than they had both intended; Enjolras needs sleep, and has not had enough.

“Good evening.” Combeferre says.

“It is morning now.” Enjolras says miserably, although it is Saturday and few will notice if he sleeps for the day as Grantaire and Combeferre will. He undresses and drops into his bed with all the grace of a heavy stone; it is comical, almost. “If you are loud I will smother each of you and leave you dead beneath your sheets.”

Grantaire stares at him, but Combeferre laughs, finding this hilarious, evidently.

“How morbid of you.” The drunkard says dryly: Enjolras throws a pillow at him with surprisingly fantastic aim, though he nearly catches the candle beside the bedside. Grantaire has never heard Enjolras joke before, but he half-suspects Enjolras isn’t joking now. Combeferre is chuckling anyway as he blows out their candles and drops Enjolras’ cushion aside, then wraps himself around Grantaire, holding him.

Grantaire buries his face against Combeferre’s neck, enjoys the soft sigh the movement drags from the other man; he glances into the darkness, where he can only see a mess of yellow locks on the other bed. Enjolras mumbles something sleepily, and rolls onto his side.

Grantaire feels has seen Enjolras without his armour: somehow he does not mind. He presses closer to Combeferre, closes his eyes, and relaxes there, enjoying the warmth of the other man’s body, the thigh between his legs and the calves his feet touch against, the straight back his hand is flat against, the neck he has buried his face in.

When he wakes, Combeferre is at the fire, pushing bacon into a buttered pan over it; in the other bed, Enjolras is tangled in his sheets still, thick hair hiding his face. Grantaire does not stare at him, as he might have. Enjolras is his idol, but Enjolras is a man; Enjolras will sleep without Grantaire’s interruption.

He looks to Combeferre, and complains, “You got out of bed.”

“You need breakfast.”

“I need so such thing.” Grantaire insists. “Come now.”

“Insolent thing.”

“You’ve not beaten me; I’ve not learned.” Grantaire points out, and Combeferre snorts.

“You were the terror of your real schoolmasters, I imagine.”

“Gros dismissed me.” Combeferre laughs.

“Ought I call that man a schoolmaster?”

“A master of some  _shit_ , certainly.” Combeferre snorts at this, dropping bacon onto bread, and he pushes a plate into Grantaire’s hands. The brunet takes it reluctantly, but once he begins to eat he finishes with rapidity, setting the plate aside; Combeferre leaves Enjolras’ at his bedside, not even thinking to wake the blond from his sleep.

Combeferre closes the shutters, and Grantaire becomes liquid on the bed, enjoying the sudden darkness and relaxing into it.

“Aimé, you are not a large man, and yet you are taking up the entirety of this mattress.”

“I am a large man.” Grantaire argues.

“So you tell your women, I am certain. I, however, hold no such belief.”

“Are we to compare notes, sir?”

“We might. There are other things we ought compare, perhaps.” Grantaire laughs, pulling back the sheets so Combeferre can join him in bed again, and despite the fighting talk they both are tired still; they relax apart, arms touching, and then each of them are sleeping again.

Grantaire wakes first the next time, regards the peace on Combeferre’s face with a content expression, and lies in place, unwilling to pull himself from bed.

“I am surprised.” Enjolras says, and Grantaire looks up. The blond is surrounded by books, clean hands continually dipping his quill into his pot of ink; a speech. Enjolras is writing a speech.

“Are you?”

“You stayed the night.” Enjolras says in a light tone, as if he knows of these things. Grantaire is certain he has no experience of his own.

“That was rather the intention of my being here.” Enjolras makes a tutting noise, but he does not continue to argue. He does not know of these things, after all – and why should he? Enjolras has as much interest in the bodies of others as cats have care for the clouds, and this has been the same since Grantaire has known him, longer, since Combeferre has known him.

Enjolras wears a shirt that is too big for him – Grantaire vaguely recognizes it as one of Courfeyrac’s, though he doesn’t comment on this. He stands from bed, naked as he searches for his clothes, picking up his trousers and dressing himself swiftly enough; Combeferre is watching him when Grantaire slips his feet into his shoes, drowsy, without his spectacles.

Grantaire is dimly aware of the fact that Combeferre is seeing him as a blur of green and black. Somehow, that appeals to him.

“I’ll see you this evening.” Combeferre says in a light tone.

“Yes.” Grantaire returns, and despite himself he dips, catching Combeferre’s lips under his own; the other man is delighted until Grantaire pulls away. With that, Combeferre relaxes again, quite content.

Enjolras does not seem to have noticed, and that is preferable to a comment, approving or otherwise.

“Good afternoon, Grantaire.” Enjolras says politley.

“Good afternoon, Aimé.” Grantaire nods to each of them, smiling a little; he is aware that his teeth are crooked, his eyes mismatched, his face an ugly thing. But it’s no matter.

“Good afternoon.”


End file.
